


Morphine and Lemon Drops

by LittleBaguette



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: 1910s, APHRarePairWeek2017, Belle Epoch, Belle Epoque, Edwardian Period, F/M, France and Monaco are not interpreted as siblings, Historical, Historical Hetalia, Historical References, Oral Sex, Period Typical Attitudes, World War I
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-14
Updated: 2017-09-14
Packaged: 2018-12-29 21:24:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12093732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleBaguette/pseuds/LittleBaguette
Summary: Wounded from a battle in Aisne, François Bonnefoy is brought to rest in a Château in the South of France.A familiar little Mademoiselle decides to pay him a visit.





	1. I.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [APH Rarepair Week 2017](http://aphrarepairweek2017.tumblr.com/)
> 
> I'm pumped to finally get some writing out there! Less pumped that it's nsfw. Oops. In my defense, mild spoiler, it'll only be the last chapter. 
> 
> A _huge_ thank you to Maggie, Graph, and Blue for helping and guiding me for this! You're all amazing ♥
> 
> •••
> 
> Monaco's name is Angélique, Francis' name is changed to François as I hc he only started going by Francis in the 1970s.  
>  _Ma colombe_ > my dove  
>  _Mon ange_ > my angel

_May 1917._

A long sigh escaped François’ lips. _What a wretched war_ , he thought to himself, as his reflection reminded him of the patch he kept over his eye. _Goddamn shrapnel_ , ruining his face like that…

Tapping his _gauloise_ in his ashtray, he weakly stepped away from the gilt-framed mirror to return to the chair he spent most of his days in. He needed to rest, didn’t he?

He had been sent to an Officer’s respite in the south of France following the humiliating defeats suffered in Aisne the previous month. A charming little _château_ somewhere between Nice and Cannes where high-ranked officers were given the rest and care they needed. Their wounds shut, their minds put at ease, the morphine helping them forget the unforgettable.  
He couldn’t help but mull it all over. _If only_ he hadn’t agreed to let Nivelle lead that offensive. _If only_ that _imbecile_ hadn’t let those men, those _boys_ , rush into the German wolf’s maw. Sometimes he could barely believe that he was only wounded when his soldiers _died_.

They died. Of course. Humans die. It’s what they _do_ , isn’t it? They die and leave those of François’ kind to reap the guilt and grievances.

The Frenchman put out his cigarette as he settled himself back in his chair at the little desk in up against the wall of his room. The light linen curtains floated in as a gentle breeze caressed the side of the little _château’s_ walls. It was peaceful… Too peaceful. There was a war out there and as tired as François was, he did not want to be a mere bystander.    
He had written letters and letters, passed phone calls and sent telegrams while he was away from the battlefield. They were close, so close- They had lost an ally and now they needed another. He didn’t want to have to drag in more soldiers from the colonies… His ties with the Senegalese were already ruined after the _Chemin des Dames_ , he was sure.

All he could do was wait. Long, nimble fingers nervously tapped against the cane he used to keep his balance, those of his other hand smoothing his fine blond mustache on his upper lip. His eyes trailed along the walls of his room, glancing over at the delicate movements of the curtains that led to his little balcony and the view of the lush green gardens below. Quickly enough, he looked back to his bed, then the desk he sat at.

He noticed he hadn’t been given today’s edition of the newspaper. Odd. _Surely_ nobody would purposefully want to withhold information from him… Of course not. He should ask one of the nurses-

Three little knocks on the door to his room made François jolt, clearly unsettled by the sudden noise. Once he realised that it was someone at the door rather than the hasty footsteps of an enemy soldier, however, he calmed down, somewhat.

“ _Oui_?” he called out, his voice surprisingly clear for a man who was so troubled. As soon as he spoke, the door knob was pushed down with a little click and a tubby older woman stood in the doorway.

“ _Monsieur Bonnefoy_ ? You have a visitor. Shall I let her in?” asked the nurse in that distinctively provençal accent. The harsh, melodic sonorities danced among her words and reminded François of a time when someone he knew also spoke an equally yet _endearingly_ rural french.

He was still a little caught in his own thoughts when he accepted. “Of course,” he said, turning away only to look back up when he recognised the pretty heeled shoes and the hem of the little lady’s long skirt “ _Angélique_?”

Of all the things war had ruined, he had yet to ruin little miss Monaco- or, if it did, she was very good at hiding her grief.

The small woman offered François a soft smile that quickly faded upon noticing the eyepatch and his weakened, depressed state. She approached him, murmuring his name which rang like sweet music to his ears… The Germans and Prussians could take everything so long as François had his little muse. His heart swelled as she came closer, relieved that after all this there were still people who bothered- He gripped her hand and kissed it, greeting her perhaps a little too passionately as she looked down on him.

Why the eye patch? How badly was he hurt? Did Herr Beilschmidt shoot him in the face? She wanted to ask all these questions but she had a nasty habit of keeping her mouth shut, as a Lady was expected to. As François himself had taught her.

… Then again, now wasn’t the time for old protocol and courtship.

“I was only told you were here yesterday.” she told him in a soft tone, her little hand going to the unharmed side of his face, tilting it up so she could look at him through her little polished glasses. He looked tired, so tired…

  
François let out a shaky sigh and nodded, a hand covering hers as he kissed her palm, the other holding his cane as he tried to get up. The monégasque was quick to press a gentle hand to his chest and give him a stern look “You must rest. You’re exhausted and sick.”

“Sick?” François scoffed though he allowed himself to sit back down “I’m _wounded_ , not sick. I wouldn’t let you anywhere near me if I were.” he sighed, leaning back and allowing her hand to slide off his face, “You look worried. Don’t scowl, _ma colombe_ , you’ll get wrinkles-”

The short woman pouted , making him shut up. She clearly wasn’t in the mood for his playful scolding. Sighing, François motioned for her to take a seat, apologising for having only a little velvet-covered ottoman to offer- It was no throne fit for a Lady, but it was _something_. This wasn’t even his home.

Angélique refused politely, a hand going to his shoulder before she walked past him to pull open the floating linen curtains to let more of the late spring breeze in. She breathed in deeply, holding her hands together and looking to the gardens only to return her attention to François when he called to her.

“How have you been, Angélique? I got your letters,” he told her with a rather timid grin, “I’m not sure you got my replies… Either way, I do hope the Italians haven’t been causing you too much chagrin…”

The girl shook her head, her gentle fingers fiddling with her pearls as she looked back to François. “I’ve been fine. The Italians haven’t bothered me personally, no.” she told him with a little pout as she looked him over. He was exhausted, she could tell. He needed to relax. She noticed a little table on wheels near the door with a glass jug of what seemed to be freshly pressed lemons and a bowl of dried chamomile, and… Was that sugar? In these times? She wondered how rationed it was- if the officers were allowed more than the people below. She had to trade so much of her luxurious lifestyle for her and the people of Monaco to be safe… Of course, she’d allow herself a new folly every once in awhile, like the pretty little shoes she wore and her tailored skirt, but she would never imagine a luxury such as _sugar_ in such a casual setting-

No. François needed it. He had already suffered so much…

“As long as you’re safe, I’ll be fine.” he muttered, looking away from her before he beckoned her to his side, patting his lap as one would call for their adoring pet.

Angélique’s cheeks warmed up at the gesture. She complied, feeling a little weakened by his pitiful state, coming to his side again. He took her hand and sighed in relief, his own shaking as he held her soft skin against his own, kissing her over and over. It felt good to feel the soft skin of a lady’s hand against his face once again.  
The rugged, tired and calloused ones of desperate, fleeting lovers on the front just didn’t feel the same. They were young men searching for one last ecstasy before dying on the frontlines, nothing more, nothing less.

The thought of it brought a tear to his eye.

“You’re guilty about something.” said Angélique as she looked down to him, wiping away the tear that had rolled down his cheek. François chuckled weakly, only wincing as he remembered how his other eye hurt.

“How do you know?” he groaned with a pained chuckle “Feminine intuition?”

The bespectacled girl sighed and looked down on him and his pitiful state. A warm, slightly painful feeling swelled within her bosom- She pitied him as he pitied her. He was distraught. He felt guilty for what happened. For the lives that were lost. She knew this.

“No… I just know,” she replied as she gently stroked his hair before she let him hold her hand.

She seemed to know what he wanted. With a relieved sigh, François took her hand and kissed it once again, giving it a firm squeeze as he breathed in quickly, shaking in his head.

“So many people are dead, _mon ange_ , so many- It’s _my fault_.”

“Is it?” she asked, leaning closer, her hand becoming a bit numb with how tightly he was holding it “Humans die, François… it’s what they _do_. You taught me that.”

“So I did!” He groaned. “But lives are lost and we’re losing-” he stifled a sob, shaking his head again “We’re losing this war. I will not allow it.”

He truly was pitiful like that- So determined to succeed but filled with enough doubt to hinder any of his efforts... He clearly needed a distraction. _Something_ to take his mind off of this..

Angélique felt humbled by his words, lowering her gaze and pouting as she felt the gentle swill of envy stir within her chest. It wasn’t as though she would be capable of a similar feat any time in her life. She was a businesswoman- if such a thing existed. She was good with money and those who used it. She wasn’t a politician nor a strategist the same way François was. She would never lead an army into battle. She would never be glorious.  
Angélique looked down and away from the Frenchman, seeming upset about something he wasn’t quite sure of.

Upon seeing her like that, the Frenchman shook his head, cursing himself for upsetting his sheltered little doll. A shame, really.

He hoped she would stay after all this.

“How long will you be staying here?”

“I can stay until the evening and come back whenever you’d want me to come.”

The blond man nodded and caressed the girl’s hand again, pressing yet another kiss to it before he looked up to her, his single eye searching for compassion in her dulled blue ones.

“Will you walk in the gardens with me? “


	2. II.

They spent the afternoon outside in the fresh warmth of the _château’s_ garden.

François carried his cane, embarrassed that he had to present himself as such a weak man before darling Angélique’s eyes. She held onto his arm as they walked on the fine gravel path and stayed in the shade of the willow trees like old friends, old lovers who silently appreciated each other’s presence in these trying times.

Mademoiselle Angélique looked lovely, did she not? With her lovely long skirt and short-sleeved blouse, her pretty little hat that crowned her pale golden locks, the pearls, the shoes, the silk-covered purse- she was much more _humble_ than she usually was but she was still elegant. _Beautiful_. François had missed that kind of gentle beauty on the frontlines.

They sat under a tree and he laid his head in her lap as they had spoken of their woes and the letters they had sent each other. He had received most, if not all, of hers. She had sent him letters of encouragement and simpering tirades of how she missed him, she had sent him parcels with lemon drops and a handkerchief she had embroidered herself that she knew would be sullied by the dirt of the trenches and the blood from his veins. It wasn’t much, simply a cockerel and bunches of wheat with the occasional hint of a blue flower among them. Her needlework was always something François had praised and Angélique was more than glad to hear how he adored it.

Angélique hadn’t received many of the Frenchman’s letters, however. She didn’t mention anything unnecessary and stipulated that some letters may have been lost… After all, she hadn’t received responses from her _other friends_ , either.

“Other friends?” asked François “Who?”

“You _know_ I’m well-acquainted with _Monsieur Braginsky,_ François.” replied the small woman as she gently caressed his forehead and cropped blonde locks, mindful of his eye patch and of the pain the side of his face might’ve been in.

François looked away when she mentioned Ivan. She spoke of him as though she didn’t _know_ what happened. Oh, sweet girl… Why on Earth did she care for that Rrussian _oaf_ in the first place?

The _sweet girl_ didn’t push it. She knew the subject of her friendship with the Russian was something he disliked and talking of an ally he didn’t necessarily like in these times wasn’t a gamble she was willing to play with. François needed to relax and keep his temper down and Angélique supposed he expected her to soothe him.

She would do so. Of course. She always did.

When they returned to François’ room, Angélique waited until he was seated again to go close the curtains and the window, her skirt twirling around her legs as she moved around his room, fussing a little as she was clearly touched by his tales of the trenches and the horrors he had seen.

“I’ll get you some tea. Do I call the nurse?” asked the small woman as she walked back to the trolley in his room with the sugar and lemon juice, noticing that a kettle filled with hot water had already been added to the tray.

“ _Non_ , everything you need is there, if you must.” he told her, looking over her form and praying she didn’t notice his eye following the curve of her waist. He blinked and leaned back, turning to glance at his desk with a furrowed brow before he spoke again “Feel free to make yourself some tea as well. I would feel horrible to treat you like-”

“A _maid_?” asked the girl as she picked up two teacups and pressed the back of her fingers to the warm kettle.

François sighed, his shoulders slumping as he did, “Well, I wasn’t going to say it like _that_.”

Angélique glanced at him over her shoulder before she returned her attention to the tea leaves, skilled hands working at the mundane craft of making tea. She knew how to do these things, despite often being considered an idle aristocrat- after all, she hadn’t _always_ been this much of a Lady.

She brought him his tea and sat down before him, first on the ottoman he had offered as a seat before, then at his feet as she felt compelled to rest her head in his lap and indulge his little guilty pleasure of petting her champagne-blonde locks.

Her skirt was splayed on the carpet beneath them as she rested there, a delicate arm wrapped around his leg as long as she knew they would be left alone. François had suffered so much… It pained her to see him so lost. She almost felt guilty for snapping at him earlier.

“I’m glad you’re safe.” she admitted, glancing up when he sipped the tea she gave him “I felt bad for you when I read your letters. I did. I…”

“It’s fine, _ma colombe_ … You don’t need to worry.” replied François as his hand found Angélique’s hair, petting her adoringly “I’m glad _you_ are safe above all. I pray you’ll never have to see war the way it is nowadays.”

“I would hope so. I have no army, I have no way to defend myself.” the girl replied with a bit of a grumble, holding onto the man’s leg

“Which is why I protect you.” retorted the frenchman, leaning forward and groaning as a sore muscle strained him, “Because you need me. They’d eat you alive.” he warned, looking away from the girl as he put his tea back down on the desk.

Angélique didn’t budge. She simply stayed on the ground with her head on François’ knee, sighing as her hand traced along the inner seam of his trousers, mindlessly letting her nails make a soft scraping sound against the fabric as she followed along, stopping mid-thigh with a flush on her cheeks.

 _How adorable_ , François thought to himself, _she’s like a kitten playing with a ball of yarn._

The small woman looked back up to the Frenchman and bit her lip, quickly glancing at the door before she returned her gaze to him, little hands making their way to his waist and resting there for a moment, nervously breathing in before she dared to speak.

“Let me help you relax.”


	3. III.

François blinked, his unscathed eye staring down on the little _demoiselle_ when he realised what she meant by _relax_ . He wouldn’t refuse such a favour, no, but he was surprised that the usually traditional Miss Angélique was making such a scandalous offer.  
It was all too tempting, he couldn’t say no… He did want to know if she was sure of her offer, however.

“Angélique, are you sure?”

She nodded. Of course she was sure. If she wasn’t sure, she wouldn’t have offered, now, would have she?  
She felt like she owed him at least this. Some sort of pleasure and respite in this cold, wretched war… She’d rather know him to be with _her_ than another harlot of a lesser prestige.

… At least, that’s what she’d tell herself. _Anything_ would go so long as she could avoid admitting what a naughty little vixen she could be.

François grinned like a wolf when she agreed, stroking her hair and brushing a strand of it behind her ear. Pleasure was a more powerful drug than morphine and God knows François would abuse it. He felt guilty that he wouldn’t be able to return the favour for now… He would do so another time.

Angélique’s hands met his crotch, holding the frenchman’s cock through his trousers as she bit her lip, hearing a gentle chuckle coming from him as he encouraged her while stroking himself off and prayed, _prayed_ that the nurses wouldn’t come.  
He unbuttoned his pants for her and let her stroke him some more before he allowed himself to tease her.

“You’re such a _curious_ kitten… Why don’t you, ah, _take it out_?” he cooed as he brought her hand down his pants, shuddering when he felt her soft hands on his mostly hardened sex.

The small woman did as she was told, lashes fluttering as she looked up to François’ cock, how vigorous it was compared to the rest of his weakened body… She felt a warm shudder take hover her, a wave of arousal pushing her to press her rosy lips to François’ manhood.  
He groaned at that, all too pleased with Angélique’s spontaneous move. He only encouraged her more with a low, guttural moan as he felt her tongue and then her mouth on him.

He balled a hand into a fist and bit on it to stifle his vocal pleasure. Angélique was very, _very_ good at this. She lapped his full length and suckled at his skin, her tongue going over his head before she dived in and took half his length in with a whimper.

“ _Good girl-_ ” François praised her with a gasp, rolling his hips slightly, encouraging her to take more without seeking to scare her off.

Angélique moaned as he pet her hair and praised her for her scandalous deeds. Yes. She was a good girl. If François adored her, then she would be satisfied. That was her _guiltiest_ pleasure, being praised and told she was _good_.

She indulged and sucked him off with what one could describe as passion. She closed her eyes and bobbed her head up and down, using her tongue to poke and prod and caress his girth, only embarrassed when she realised how much he made her drool and knowing that she couldn’t indulge in riding him that day. She was here to help him _relax_ , not _exhaust_ the poor man-

Angélique whimpered as she felt his hands attempt to grope her chest while she lapped him up, both entranced and ashamed by the fact that her plump rosy lips and François’ flushed erection were connected by a fine trail of saliva as she panted and pushed up her glasses.

Oh how _cute_ was she with her pretty little glasses and her flustered state- François couldn’t get enough of it. It made him forget everything else for a second, just a _second_.

François’ right hand stroked himself off as the other caressed’ Angélique’s cheek while she cooed at her, praising her for being so _sweet_ and making him feel so _good_. She truly was his little angel.

Rolling his hips, he encouraged her to come again, at least to bring him closer to the edge- And so she did. Her mouth was back on him and she licked and sucked again, unadulterated pride in herself and adoration for the man before her making her feel euphoric in the moment when she tasted his seed.

He pulled out when he came, drops of cum drooling from the girl’s lips, cheek and glasses. She seemed a little distraught in the moment, worried as to whether or not she got any of his semen on her blouse… Thankfully for her, François was quick to help her clean up , dabbing at her pretty doll face with a handkerchief, ashamed to admit that he used his most prized possession, the one Angélique had embroidered for him, for such scabrous purposes.

The petite woman wiped her face and got up, leaving François panting as she helped herself to a glass of water. She was tempted to splash it on her face to wash away the shame of the afterglow. Oh, the _Ave Maria_ s she’d have to say at church that Sunday…  
She washed the frenchman’s desire from her glasses with a pout, visibly distraught he had come on her face while she was wearing them… At least he called her cute when he had finished.

As François came down from his post-orgasm euphoria, he grinned softly, a hand running over his face as he looked back to Angélique. What a marvelous young woman she had grown into. She was as beautiful as she was well-read… And above all, she knew how to drive a man insane with nothing but her lips. She was God-sent and François believed he was the luckiest man alive to have claimed her- Disregarding her own opinion on the facts, that is. She was lovely, yes, but she  insisted she was her own woman- As influenced by the movement of the _Nouvelle Femme_ she was- She had been reading those manifestos again, hadn’t she? A lovely little intellectual, too! François was proud. Very proud.

He adored her body as he loved her mind, and that was all that mattered when they were alone together in their ivory tower.  
He looked up and beckoned her to his side once again, his loving tone running like honey from his lips.  
  
“ _Mon ange_ …” he cooed as she looked over to him, “Why don’t you come sit in my lap?” •••♠

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it for now! I think I'll write more Franaco some time soon... We'll see ♥
> 
> Thank you for reading so far! If you enjoyed this fic, please know that you can reblog [this post](https://baguettedraws.tumblr.com/post/165340689979/so-many-people-are-dead-mon-ange-so-many-its) to share it around! 
> 
> Bye for now!  
> Love, Baguette


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